


A Legacy of Potter's

by Sar_Kalu



Series: A String of W.I.P's [3]
Category: Assassin's Creed - All Media Types, Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: AU, Assassin!Harry Potter, Gen, Unfinished, WIP, historical fiction - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-01-03
Updated: 2018-03-10
Packaged: 2019-02-27 16:46:11
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 6,600
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13252401
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Sar_Kalu/pseuds/Sar_Kalu
Summary: In the Summer before Third Year, Harry James Potter is waylaid by Goblins as per his Father, James Charlus Potter's Will and Testament. Here, Harry discovers a ring, a letter and a suit of armour that changes... everything.





	1. In Principium

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A visit to the goblins, a letter, a legacy in pater familias, and a destiny learned...

Gringotts' marble floor echoed hollowly with the steps of a young teen, messy black hair and green eyes marked the heir of the Potter family and Snaptooth sat up with interest, his black eyes shining with triumph. Years, Gringotts had waited; years of patiently waiting for the teen in front of him to step out from under the shadow of Albus Dumbledore. Years of gnashing teeth and frustrated growls as people took the Potter heir for granted and extorted every last Knut from underneath the child; and now, _finally_ , Harold Potter had arrived in Gringotts; free of escort.

 

Snaptooth gestured to his aid to collect Griphook, and beckoned the young Potter heir to his counter. "You are late, Mr. Potter." 

 

Harry's eyes widened in shock, late? For what? Confusion must have shown on his face because Snaptooth smirked, baring sharp teeth, and turned to Griphook, who had arrived in the intervening minutes.

 

"Mister Potter to see you, sir," Snaptooth informed his superior before returning to his books and ledgers. The Malfoy account was showing signs of financial strain and it would be up to Snaptooth the balance Lord Malfoy's books and bring about prosperity to the declining family once more. 

 

Griphook beckoned Harry after him without a word and escorted the youthful heir to his office. "I do not know if you remember, Mister Potter, but I was the goblin who guided you to your trust vault two years ago." Griphook informed the teen gravely as he sat behind a tall desk in a black leather chair. Harry was seated across from him on another black leather chair sized for adult humans, his feet swinging a good foot above the ground as he slumped in the chair.

"Yes," Harry stammered, confused. "I know; that is, I remember Mister Griphook." Harry flushed in embarrassment. Harry didn't wear surprise well, it seemed.

 

"Do you know why you are here today, Mister Potter?" Griphook asked, ignoring the child's incorrect address for now. Mister Potter's education in the intricacies of goblin folk lore and customs would have to wait for another day. 

 

"No, sir," Harry did indeed look very lost, his green eyes wide and surprised as he watched the goblin across from him grimace with distaste. "Have I done something wrong, sir?" Harry asked, remembering Hagrid grave warning to him two years ago. 

 

_"Not the friendliest of creatures, goblins."_

 

"No Mister Potter; unless of course you have been receiving our correspondence these past five years and have been ignoring Gringotts?" The goblins statement was phrased as a question as he watched the teen shake in his hard leather chair.

 

Harry's eyes widened, "no, sir!" He was quick to assure Griphook, shaking his head fervently.

 

"It is as we feared then," Griphook mused. "The last of the Potter's has been compromised."

Harry's brow furrowed in confusion. "Compromised, sir?"

 

"Indeed," Griphook agreed, not explaining himself for the moment. It would not do to worry the child unduly. Not until he had all necessary information, that is. Griphook's eyes gleamed brightly with savage triumph, Harry's unwitting denial had opened up the bank's ability to investigate the matter regarding stolen funds and the management of Albus Dumbledore of the Potter heir's estate.

 

"Sir, what is going on?" Harry asked timidly, worrying about the nature of the goblins smile which did not bode well at all for the receiver. 

 

Griphook met Harry's gaze squarely, not an ounce of emotion crossing his alien features. "I have not been entirely honest with you, Mister Potter, and I would ask your forgiveness and your leniency in explaining." 

 

Griphook waited for Harry's assent before he began weaving his tale.

 

"Twelve years ago, days before your parents murder, your father, Lord James Potter met with me and left me with specific instructions. Upon your arrival at Gringotts bank on your eleventh birthday, should you be unaccompanied by anyone known to associate with Mister Albus Dumbledore, I was to take you aside and have you sign emancipation papers and gift you with your rightful title as Lord Potter." 

 

Here Griphook paused, pressing a button on his desk which brought a timid house elf with a tray of glasses filled with all manner of beverages. Griphook picked up a small tumbler filled with amber liquid, his eyes humorous as they met Harry's bewildered gaze. "Please, Mister Potter, refresh yourself."

 

Once Harry had done so, Griphook continued in his grave tone.

 

"Naturally, we both know that this did not come to pass, indeed we at Gringotts were distressed to note your attire, bearing and the fact that you did not hold your vault key." Griphook paused again, his jaw rippling with the power of his rage. "It was clear to us that you had not been brought up well." At Harry's attempt to protest, Griphook held up one clawed hand. "Let me finish, Mister Potter."

 

Harry nodded, his eyes filled with mulish anger. He was not nearly as ill-bred as Dudley!

 

"As I was saying," Griphook shot a chastened Harry a dark look. "Upon your arrival you were not as we expected and I failed to remove you from the half-giant's care-"

 

Harry gasped in shock, "Hagrid's a giant?!"

Griphook refused to deign such a foolish question with an answer and continued: "Then in your second time in visiting us here at Gringotts, once more I failed to remove you from the attendance of Dumbledore's lackeys. Instead I watched you walk away both times without speaking with you at all. Indeed, I failed to even indicate that there was more waiting for you here." 

 

Griphook's clawed left hand spasmed into a tight fist while his right hand cracked the fragile glass of the tumbler that he quickly set down; shooting Harry an apologetic glance. "My apologies, Mister Potter, for this deficiency in completing your late father's wishes. I only ask for a moment to explain my actions."   

 

Harry felt that nothing had been made clearer to him and so gestured to Griphook to do as he desired, hoping that _something_ would make sense soon.

 

"Both times," Griphook said. "I dared not raise suspicions with Hogwarts' headmaster and both times I felt that you were not ready for the burden I am to ask you to bear." Griphook reached into his desk and pulled out a thick envelope of aged parchment, the wax seal on the back was blood red and had a strange triangular symbol etched into it. "This is for you, from Lord James Potter on the occasion of your eleventh birthday, now two years late. Yet I fear that I cannot delay this day any longer, and for this, Mister Potter, I beg your forgiveness." 

 

At this, Griphook slipped from his chair and handed Harry the heavy envelope. "Do not bear your father too much ill-will, had he survived he would have taught you the contents of this letter when he thought you were ready. As it is," Griphook sighed heavily. "Circumstances prevented this from happening."

 

Harry stared after the cryptic goblin in confusion, knowing only that whatever it was that his father had been caught up in had ben prevented by the Headmaster of Hogwarts; something that confused Harry greatly. Griphook watched Harry for a moment longer before bowing his head slightly and exiting the room, leaving Harry alone and suddenly afraid of the letters contents.

 

**xXx**

 

Harry cracked open the seal, tracing the lines of the strange triangle design before he did so. Two lines sharply descending from a single point and a third joining them in a downward curve fading towards the middle. The two bottom corners flared out in a lopsided square and beneath the curve of the third line, there was a fourth line, triangulating in the middle and then sweeping outwards to run parallel to the squared edges of the triangle. Harry dismissed the strange design from his mind as the first swirling lines of his father's letter edged into view.

 

_To my dearest Son, Harold James Potter_

 

_I write this letter to you on the occasion of my death and your eleventh birthday. If, for any reason, Griphook is late in giving you this, I can only hope that it is because of extenuating circumstances and not because Griphook dares to break the treaty between Gringotts and the Potter Family._

 

_Before I speak of the reasons for this letter, know that I love you, my Son and Heir. You are the light of my, and your mother’s, life; nothing you could do would ever gain our disapproval, not even should you desire to join the so-called Dark. Know that you bear no blame for our deaths and that what we did was because we felt it was right. Never doubt that._

 

_The Potter Family is one of great legacy, Harry, I doubt that Headmaster Dumbledore has deigned to fill you in on our illustrious history which spans centuries. The first of our line who bore the name Potter, was Henry Porteur, a French wizard in the court of the Duke of Normandy, William the Conqueror, later William the First of England._

 

_The Potter's anglicised our last name during the 12th century, a time of great reformation and the time of Georg Porteur IV, later George Potter the fourth; a squib knight during the Crusades under King Richard the First, known also as the Lion-Hearted or Godric Gryffindor to the wizarding population. George was the first Potter to meet Al Mualim of Masyaf in 1176, but he was not the last. In 1190 George sent his wizarding son, Richard Potter, the first of the Potter line to learn under Al Mualim as an assassin and as a secret knowledge keeper of the newly instated English Assassin Order._

 

_Until this moment the Templar Order had run roughshod over the British Monarchy, and it was Stephen Langton, Archbishop of Canterbury and a Knight Templar, who ordered the death of Richard the first so that King John, the first and last of his name, might fall beneath the weight of the rebelling Barons and sign the Magna Carta which limited Monarchical power._

 

_Upon the death of King John, the Assassin Order of England rose up and quietly suppressed Louis of France's attempts to seize power and installed King Henry under the King-Regent William Marshal who had married Elizabeth Potter, sister of Richard, in 1208._

 

_From there, the Potter Family has had a controlling interest in the English Monarchy with several of our Daughters marrying into the Royal Lines. Indeed, our current Queen is the thrice great-granddaughter of my own great-granduncle George Potter the seventh, the second son of Edward Potter the sixth, who married his youngest daughter into the Denmark Royal family at the behest of King William the fifth._

 

_As you can see, you have the most illustrious of lineages to uphold and I entrust the following with you to reveal only at your discretion to those who hold your fullest trust and even then, under oath._

 

_As I have previously stated, our Family is one of the oldest and noblest throughout England, holding ties to the Royal Lines of several countries but this is not our greatest treasure and our greatest curse. Within a private vault that I have not shown your mother for fear of her judgment, I have placed the heirlooms of Sir Richard Potter, the first of our Order._

 

_Upon your thirteen birthday you will descend into Gringotts itself and avail yourself upon the knowledge that your childhood is at an end. From here on out you will uphold the honour of our family and carry the burden that all Potter's must bear._

 

_You will be the hand that stays the Light._

 

_You will be the reigns that check the Dark._

 

_You will be the eyes that watch for corruption._

 

_You will be the voice of reason._

 

_You will be the mind that knows every secret and every thought._

 

_Yours will be the duty to safeguard the nation._

 

_You, Harold Potter the Third, will carry the arms, the armour and the honour of the Assassin Order and you will do so with pride and fidelity._

 

_Speak of this to no one, my son, it is not for them to know; and as you read these words, remember to honour our Creed:_

 

  1. _Stay thine blade from the flesh of one whom is innocent of all wrong-doing._



 

_II.   Hide thyself in plain sight; no greater sin is there to be seen doing our sacred work._

 

_III.   Never compromise the Brotherhood._

 

_Unto the arms of the Brotherhood I now send you, and remember, that no matter what, your mother and I are proud of you my Son, my brother in arms, my Heir. Forever and always know that I love you, my Son,_

 

_Thy Father and Lord,_

 

_James Potter, second of his name._

_Lord of the Most Ancient and Honourable House of Potter_

_Lord Commander of the Assassin Order_

 

**xXx**

 

Harry reread the letter three times over, absorbing the incredible contents with an increasingly heavy heart. He could tell no one of the contents; Harry trusted no one nearly enough to expose his familial secret. A secret his _mother_ had been unaware of. 

 

Harry considered folding the letter up and keeping it, instead his father's warning rang out in his mind and with gritted teeth, Harry tossed the letter into the fireplace, a candle quickly following.

 

Harry's eyes were suspiciously wet when Griphook returned, and the goblin raised his eyebrows at the cheerfully crackling fireplace that had certainly not been lit when he had left two hours ago. Knowledge flooded his mind at the sight of Harry's empty hands and shaking shoulders. The child had chosen the protection of his family's secrets over the sentimentality of his father's words.

 

The first words he had known from his father since the man's death twelve years prior. 

 

Truly, Griphook thought to himself, Harold James Potter the Third was a true son of the Lionhearted; a true Gryffindor indeed.

 

"What do you wish to do, Mister Potter?" Griphook asked the thirteen year old boy.

 

Harry scowled at his shaking hands and the goblin watched with calm eyes as the boy squared his shoulders and stood, suddenly ageing ten years in as many minutes. 

 

Harry James Potter was no longer.

 

Harold James Potter the Third, Lord of the Most Ancient and Honourable Potter House and future Master of the Assassin Order, however, was here to stay.

 

**xXx**

 

Harold stood in the doorway of his father's private vault, green eyes observing the neatly stacked piles of silver and gold coins that framed a tall manikin mantled in white and red over dark leather armour. 

 

"Mister Potter, your signet ring rests on the plinth before your forebears armour." Griphook directed, his voice carefully modulated as he watched the teen. Harold had changed in the intervening hours since arriving at Gringotts earlier that morning. 

 

Harold crossed the floor, noting that Griphook remained behind and so missed the many, many sets of armour that stood behind the piles of gold and silver. Each set was named and Harold made to read each name, only to feel his feet freeze to the cold stone floor. 

 

Getting the message loud and clear, Harold turned to the plinth and let his eyes rest upon the heavy gold ring, noting that the strange triangle symbol from his fathers letter was sunk into the soft metal. Harold picked the ring up and set it on his right index finger, feeling the metal band tighten cruelly about his digit momentarily before slacking once more, apparently satisfied. 

 

Harold had just begun to relax when pain erupted in his hand and sparked up his arm like an inferno; boiling his blood and crumbling his very bones. Harold let out a harsh scream, falling to his knees and watched in horror as blood gushed over his bony hand to pool at his knees. 

 

Images raced into his mind with all the weight of a battering ram and Harold choked on his tongue as he both bit back a second scream and tried to swallow at once.

 

_An eagle soared over a city of sand, stone and withered trees..._

 

_Colourful people milled around, the assassin crouched above, his eyes intent on his target..._

 

_A rush of heat..._

 

_Sticky blood flowering across the palms of his hand, staining his robe..._

 

_Hiding in plain sight..._

 

_Soldiers screaming for answers that would would never come..._

 

_Spurring his horse into a flat gallop..._

 

_Reaching his destination..._

 

_It was cold, wet and dreary..._

 

_A grey stoned castle towered above his head..._

 

_Lights flicker in the stained glass windows, a man at prayer before a foreign God..._

 

_The feeling of flesh giving way beneath his cold, steel blade..._

 

_Running, always running..._

 

_Hiding..._

 

_Harsh breathing, heat pooling in his stomach..._

 

_The hilt of his sword is heavy in his hand, his muscles ache, a flash of a red cross on a white field..._

 

_Heat..._

 

_Sand..._

 

_Grass..._

 

_The smell of summertime, honeysuckle and dew..._

 

_The scream of battle, chaos all around, where was his target..._

 

Harold sat upright, gasping in shock. 

 

The rush of images had been overwhelming; the smells, the sounds and the feeling of hunting, running, hiding had ensnared his senses.

 

Harold stared at his unmarred hand, the heavy weight of the Potter signet ring winked at him on his unharmed index finger and Harold felt his mind rebel at what he had just seen. Had that really happened? 

 

 _Nihil est; Omnia licet_...

 

Harold blinked in shock, the motto of the Potter Clan, of the Assassin Order; Harold’s eyes hardened, he would not forget.

 

Standing, Harold made his way hesitantly to the back of the vault and there hanging on a manikin was his father's armour and a white mantle with darker grey edging and a dark brown sash. His father's sash was similar to George the fifth's, both men had worn brown sashes. Only Richard the first wore a scarlet sash, the fabric had not faded in the intervening years and Harold was very partial to the colour.

 

However beside his father's manikin stood a bare white robe, unmarked by any colour denoting rank or title. This was Harold’s, he was certain of it. Harold strode forwards and touched the white fabric, marvelling at the smooth texture only to yelp in surprise as the robe shuddered and twisted beneath his fingers.

 

Within seconds the unmarked robe stood on it's pedestal with an emerald green sash about it's chest and waist. Harold frowned at the strange happenings; magic? It must be, what else could cause manikins to change and sashes to appear? 

 

Beneath the newly adorned robe was a plaque that simply stated:

 

 _Harold James Potter the Third, Lord of the Potter Family_  

 

**xXx**

 

The Leaky Cauldron was busy that afternoon, yet Harold saw none of it; his heart was heavy as he traipsed up the stairs, a bag slung over his shoulder filled to the brim with books. The time for ignorance, Harry determined, was well and truly over. According to his father's decree, he was a man now and that meant he had to take responsibility for his own actions. 

 

Harold stamped into his room, shucking his cloak, bag and robes onto a nearby table before seating himself upon the bed and tugging his shoes off. Standing once more, Harold grabbed the shoulder bag and set it on the duvet cover, gripping the straps tightly. 

 

Despite everything he had seen today, everything he had read, received and done; opening this bag felt as though it would be an irretrievable step forwards towards an unknowable destiny. 

 

Harold gripped the edges of the bag firmly, a frown furrowing his brow deeply, and with a deep breath, Harold tore the book open. There was no going back now…


	2. In Continuitas

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Exhaustion and boredom, an apology and a betrayal, a cocky young man in a suit, and a glorious sunset

_It is the year 1216 and our King, John I has died from a wasting illness after thirteen years of war and rebellion. The Kingdom has been thrown into chaos and the Duke Louis, son of the French King, dares to challenge the rightful English King, Henry III, who is defended to the last by the King-Regent William Marshall. The past year has been spent battling the pretender back to the City of London..._

 

Harold groaned and rubbed his eyes, he had spent the past day and a half reading his family's history and despite his dedication, he was still only up to Lord Richard Potter I. Richard had been the court wizard for King Richard I, King John I, and King Henry III; a term that spanned close to sixty years and had covered some of the more interesting periods of history. 

 

As it was, Harold found the current conflict being described to be an incredibly dull affair; the rebellion of the Barons and the war waged by the French King's son had caused King John to sign the Magna Carta, a document that had not only restricted the Monarchical powers but also paved the way for the Statute of Secrecy in 1689. 

 

Harold sighed and flopped backwards, he was tired and bored of reading dry and dusty tomes that had very little in the way of actual useful knowledge. At least, to Harold’s mind. Harold cast a dark look at the book that rested beside his head. It smelled of must, dust and mould. It was nauseating.

 

Sighing once more, Harold kicked himself upright and shoved his shoes on; if he wasn't going to get any reading done, he could at least do _something_ useful. Shouldering his robe and cloak, Harold bounded downstairs after locking his room and stashing his books beneath the ratty clothes given to him by the Dursley’s. It wouldn't do for the Potter secrets be found out by someone _other_ than Potter blood. 

 

Diagon Alley was bustling with crowds and crowds of people; the pre-school rush had shopkeepers and shop-assistants running around like headless chickens; their frantic expressions not exactly filling Harold with any kind of confidence in their abilities to help him.

 

Tired of standing unattended in Madam Malkin's, Harold ducked into Gringotts to speak with the nearest teller and receive information regarding other stores that sold clothing and affects; despite being an adult in the eyes of his family line he was still very much a child within his own and the eyes of the general public. 

 

Snaggletooth was waiting for him in the entryway and was swift to guide him to Griphook’s office. The Master Goblin’s desk was clear of all paperwork and Harold was suspicious of his motives. Upon his hand his signet ring warmed and the air shimmered before his eyes, bleeding colours across his vision and lighting up Snaggletooth and Griphook a bright blue, leaving Harold with the belief that both goblins were his allies; although he could not have said how he knew to interpret the colours so. 

 

Snaggletooth bowed Harold into the office, his dark eyes briefly flicking upwards to meet Griphook’s sharp gaze before sliding from the office as though he had never been. Harold took his seat, noting for the first time, just how luxurious Griphook’s office was. 

 

Darkly panelled walls gleamed a rich mahogany and his desk was made of teak or some other dark, hard wood that cost as much as his Uncle’s house to import from the Americas. Sconces that gleamed a bright gold held fires of white flame that flickered cleanly and without the greasy, oily smell one would expect and the floor was carpeted in rich fabrics that held all the colours of the rainbow without appearing gaudy. All in all, it was a beautiful office.

 

“Welcome back, Lord Potter,” Griphook greeted him carefully, directing him to seat himself in the adult sized chairs before the great desk that the Goblin Master sat behind. “I have some business to address with you, at your leisure, if today does not suit then perhaps tomorrow?”

 

Harold considered the goblin, despite knowing the creature was trustworthy and an ally to he and his family, Harold had yet to actually receive verbal indication that this… knowledge… was indeed correct; and yet, to indicate otherwise could be construed as a grave and previous insult to both Griphook and the Goblin Nation. Which was not something he wished to do before learning his way around the family politics.

 

“Address away, Master Griphook,” Harold stated finally. “I have nothing pressing today.” His tongue sufficiently mangled by the magic of his Lord’s ring, Harold found himself glaring at the gaudy jewellery in consternation.

 

Griphook chuckled darkly, “I remember that expression from your own Father during his sixteenth year. That ring is not only a legacy and mark of a Lord, Mister Potter, but is also imbued with dangerous and dark magics that shape and change a man into the expected figure that his Family needs him to be.” Griphook looked contemplatively at the ring that sat innocently on the young Potter’s finger and smirked nastily, “magics that have long since forbidden by the Ministry as evil and cruel. 

 

“But then,” here Griphook’s cruel smile widened until Harold was actively gripping the arms of his chair so as not to flee at the sight. “Your Ministry has ever hated that which it cannot understand or cannot control.”

 

Harold gulped, feeling more a child than ever before, and inched away from the grinning goblin. “Understood, Master Goblin,” Harold nodded hastily, his face a picture of uneasiness. 

 

The Goblin’s smile almost softened, appearing less cruel in the white light of the sconces and Harold settled deeper into to his seat and tried to appear older and wiser than he was. Griphook observed all this with an approving eye. Since the young Potter Lord’s ascension, Harold had acted and comported himself with all the gravitas awarded to his station and thus far, had brought nothing but pride to his House and Name. Time would tell if Harold continued in this manner or if the shine wore off his new station and whether Gringotts would have to reconsider their stance as beneficiaries and allies of the Assassin Order. Goblin’s held no fondness for the Templar Order, but nor did the Goblin Nation enjoy parlaying with humans who failed to respect Tradition and Magick as they ought.

 

“It is my displeasure to be the bearer of bad tidings, My Lord,” Griphook relented as the young Potter Lord began to - not quite fidget in his chair, but look increasingly discomforted. For all that the boy had a magical ring that guided his words, acumen, and actions; Lord Harold Potter was precisely that, a boy. 

 

Harold’s brow furrowed in confusion, “bad tidings?”

 

“Quite,” the goblin agreed gravely, “there has been a break out in Azkaban prison. A human names Sirius Black, a Peer of yourself and your father, as well as one of Lord Potter’s closest friends has escaped.”

 

“Sirius Black?” Harold questioned, “he was a friend of my Father’s?”

 

“Indeed, Lord Potter,” Griphook said. “Lord Sirius Black of the Most Ancient and Noble House of Black is a Peer of the Realm and is descended from the original Briton’s of the Isles. This particular Sirius is the third of his name, named after his great-grandfather, and is your own father’s third cousin, thrice removed through Dorea Potter née Black, who is Sirius Black’s second cousin, twice removed through his Father, Lord Orion Black.”

 

Harold screwed up his face, trying to puzzle that overload of information out. Cousins that were first cousins were directly related through their parents siblings. Second times removed meant that it was their great-aunts and great-uncles and grandparents that were siblings. Three times removed meant great-great-grandparents that were siblings. Depending on birth order and generations, second and third cousins could be related purely through marriage. Sirius Black was related to James Potter through their great-great-grandparents, Dorea Potter née Black for James Potter and whoever else for Sirius Black. 

 

“Right,” Harold said slowly, “so Sirius Black is what, the last of his Name currently and Lord of his House?”

 

Griphook inclined his head, impressed that the young Potter Lord had kept up with the deluge of genealogical information. “Quite so,” the goblin agreed, “Lord Sirius Black, should he ever be cleared of the charges against his name. Current Ministerial rulings provide that a felon cannot hold a seat upon the Wizengamot and thus cannot hold a Peerage title until such time as the person in question either proves their innocence or is capable of standing trial and being declared innocent of wrongdoing - regardless of whether that declaration is true or not. There is not, nor has there ever been, a requirement for those of Peerage to tell the truth under potion or spell compulsion as it was deemed too dangerous to familial secrets and knowledge.”

 

Harold couldn’t help but bristle at that tidbit of information. To know that truth had no place within the judicial system ran against the grain of everything that his teachings at primary school had taught him. Muggles placed high expectation upon their judicial and legislative systems as being above corruption and exemption. Regardless of how rich and powerful a person was. 

 

“That doesn’t sound fair,” Harold observed.

 

Griphook bared his pointed teeth in a very unpleasant grin, “not for those not of the Peerage its not; it is, however, exceptionally useful for those who are of the Peerage and who have jobs that… require less restrictive forms of governance to operate.”

 

Harold frowned at that before his eyes widened in understanding. The Potter’s were a very old, very powerful family that were judge, jury and executioner of people who operated outside the bounds of the legal system; but in doing so, the Potter family also were required to act outside of what many would consider ethical or moral. 

 

“I see,” Harold said faintly, understanding that perhaps the system was rigged towards the pureblooded factions that contained idiots like Malfoy, but that system would also protect and serve him in his goals as protector and guide for the Wizarding world. “But that doesn’t explain how a Peer of the Realm ended up in prison or why this is “bad tidings” for myself.”

 

Griphook steeled himself, knowing better than to think that the young Wizard before him would react with anything less than fury at his next words. “Because, Lord Potter,” Griphook replied with all the bluntness his kind was known for, “Sirius Black was the Secret Keeper for your parents hideout during the war and proceeded to give that secret to the Dark Wizard known as Voldemort.”

 

Harold froze in his seat, his instinctive desire to lash out and scream and kick and cry until he was exhausted and Gringotts was nothing more than rubble, locked down by the Heritage Magick in the Ring on his finger. The band of the Ring tightened until it felt like constrictive ice and Harold was kept from reaction by sheer force of the Ring’s Will. As the pressure about his finger lessened, Harold had to look down to check and see that his finger was still attached to his body. He felt as though he had just run a marathon - and yet, he hadn’t moved a muscle in the ten minutes of silence and Griphook was eyeing him carefully as though expecting him to blast into the stratosphere in rage. 

 

“I,” Harold rasped coldly, “see.”

 

Griphook shuddered at the look on the young Potter Lord’s face. He would most certainly not enjoy meeting the young man on a dark street in the dead of the night. Perhaps Gringotts would uphold their Charter with the Potters. Griphook couldn’t say the same for the Blacks. Harold James Potter would - was a dangerous enemy to have.

 

“Well,” Harold said eventually, noting that the goblin was both not looking him in the eye and utterly refusing to be the first to speak. Harold almost likened it to prey-response that he’d heard about on an old BBC documentary at primary school once; except that Griphook was a goblin and goblin’s didn’t get _scared_. Certainly not by children. “Thank you for the information, Griphook-”

 

 

“Lord Potter,” Griphook hastened, fear for the young Lord overriding his good sense; Griphook was perhaps overly attached to the Potter Line, but he had also guided the last six generations through their journeys and thus knew his clients better than most goblins would deign to. “There is more.”

 

Harold raised an eyebrow, “more?”

 

“Sir,” the goblin said without thinking and taking a more familiar approach in his directive, “Sirius Black was not only the Secret Keeper of your parents safety, but was also listed as your Godfather. Gringott’s has all the paperwork to prove that Mister Black would have been charged with your care, had he not been incarcerated.”

 

Harold stilled once more. “Godfather?” He murmured, “in every sense of the word?”

 

“Lord Potter?” 

 

“There was a tradition amongst the Longbottoms, Blacks, and Potter’s to foster their children amongst themselves as well as ensure impartial guardianship of children should the worst happen during times of conflict. Arcturus Black the first devised a ritual whereupon a parent could name a godparent for the child, should the parents die prematurely. This ritual requires blood and magic and is irreversible.” Harold lectured, remembering that he had read this information not six hours previously, “equally, it prevents the godparent carrying out any action that may harm the parents or child wilfully.” 

 

Griphook shuffled through the papers on his desk, having been prepared should the Potter Lord require proof of his words. “ _In Loco Parentis_?” Griphook inquired, his black eyes gleaming with the new knowledge and understanding.

 

“A term that has since been appropriated by schools the world over,” Harold agreed.

 

“We have paperwork that details Sirius Black’s guardianship which has been titled _In Loco Parentis_ ,” Griphook explained, holding up the sheet of vellum that was signed in blood at the bottom. Two names. The first as the assigned was Sirius Black; the second as the witness, James Potter.

 

Harold read the sheet and shrugged faintly, “it looks to be correct,” he admitted, “however, my knowledge is barebones at the minute. I’ve been playing catch up but there is only so much I can do with the time I have.”

 

Griphook nodded shortly, “Gringotts may have something for the constraints of time, for a small fee,” and here, Griphook grinned rather viciously. “I will also make inquiries regarding the trial of one Sirius Orion Black and see about clearing his name. If you are correct about this ritual, there will be a great many Families that will be very unhappy that one of the Peerage was incarcerated on false charges.”

 

Harold smirked in approval. “Now, about that ‘something’?”

 

Griphook’s smile, which already vicious, turned bloodthirsty, “tell me, Lord Potter, what do you know of Time Turners?”

 

**xXx**

 

Harold Potter stepped inside _Twilfit and Tatting’s Tailors_ to the accompaniment of a delicate tinkle of the shop-bell. The inside was dark and almost dingy, barring the overhead chandelier that illuminated the store with a soft golden glow. Bolt upon bolt of fabric was stacked on shelves, in cupboards and under tables. The Store appeared to be empty and Harold wandered from bench to bench running his fingers over velvets and brocade and lace, marvelling at the designs and colours. 

 

A dull thud of a boot upon wooden floors heralded the arrival of a pale faced young man with keen brown eyes and rectangular eyeglasses rimmed with gold. His white, collared undershirt was tucked into a pair of thick woollen trousers of hunter green, which were in turn tucked into calf high, pointed toe boots made of a deep brown leather. The man wore a charcoal grey waistcoat and the thin gold chain of a pocket watch could be seen trailing from his pocket to the fastening of his third pewter button. 

 

“Good afternoon, sir,” the young man greeted Harold with a quiet yet firm voice, “my name is Jeffery Twilfit, how may I help you today?”

 

Harold indicated his current attire, “I require a new wardrobe. Price is of no consequence.”

 

Mister Twilfit’s eyes lit up behind his glasses and his smiled a bit beyond what might be considered customer-service polite. “Very good, sir, do you have any requirements that I need know about?”

 

“I attend Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry and will require new school robes as well as every day robes and underclothes.” Harold replied, noting how the young man’s eyes gleamed at such a sale passing through his doors. “I also require a new pair of black leather school shoes as well as boots of everyday out of school wear, in addition to a pair of formal shoes - preferably leather.”

 

Mister Twilfit smiled at Harold, “very good, sir,” and still smiling, Mister Twilfit gestured for Harold to climb atop a slight dais that was perhaps too wide to be called a stool. 

 

Harold stood still and calm atop the dais and allowed Mister Twilfit to take his measurements down on a piece of parchment that seemed magically connected to the tape measure that Mister Twilfit was wielding with competent ease; although Harold was hard pressed not to blush when the tailor bent down to take his inseam. It seemed a tad improper, however, Mister Twilfit made no fuss despite his clients obvious discomfort.  When Mister Twilfit stepped backwards, tucking the measuring tape into his pocket and plucking the parchment and quill from the air, he looked up at Harold and smiled. 

 

“A full wardrobe will take a minimum of three days to complete, sir,” Mister Twilfit told him calmly, knowing better than to ask for more because most wizarding folk prized expediency over quality. “Do you have preferences for colour?”

 

Harold stepped down and settled his cloak back around his shoulders, noting, not for the first time, how the hem drifted a good two inches off the ground. It would appear, that at long last, Harold was growing taller. “Take as long as you need, I’d rather quality than speed,” Harold stated, amused by the obvious relief that coloured the tailors face at his words. “Additionally, three new cloaks would be appreciated. It would appear that I have grown out of mine.”

 

“Excellent choice, sir,” Mister Twilfit said, making a note of Harold’s additional request. “As to your colour preferences?”

 

Harold smirked, “aside from my Hogwarts robes, of which I am Housed in Gryffindor; I would prefer my everyday wear to be in dark greys and emerald greens.”

 

“All the better to bring out your eyes, sir,” Mister Twilfit jibed humorously, a smile parting his lips in appreciation for his clients easy decision making. “May I suggest more than three pairs of shoes, sir? You may find the weather turning in Scotland and ruining your shoes, otherwise.”

 

“A good suggestion, Mister Twilfit,” Harold agreed as he straightened his shoulders, lifting his head. 

 

“Well, Mister Potter,” Mister Twilfit said with a quirk of his mouth that said he’d known who Harold was the entire time, “I will see you in a week.”

 

Harold barely blinked in surprise and instead smiled deviously, “indeed you will, Mister Twilfit,” he murmured, before exiting the store and blinking at the sunlight that nearly blinded him.

 

It was late afternoon and the sun had sunk to just above the rooftops, marking the hour closer to seven pm than one, when he had entered Gringotts. Harold slipped through the loosely knotted crowds of wizards and witches that drifted along Diagon Alley, making his way to the Leaky Cauldron for dinner and rest. It had been a long day and Harold was tired; but satisfied. 

 

Today had gone well.


End file.
